This is written on Sunday, September 13, 2009, to record events of Saturday 12, 2009.
Newcomb Hollow Beach in Wellfleet: 8 am.
Arriving at the starting line, familiar faces poured out of cars. My friend Miles, who had originally told me of the club’s existence, had driven us to the beach at six thirty that morning, which ordinarily is an hour I refuse to see on weekends. The weather had begun misty, and by the time we pulled into our yellow paint parking spot, the sky had turned the color of granite. Mr. Patterson’s vehicle contained Noah, Joe, and Kelsie, who drowned out our greetings with the slamming of car doors. Nathan and Justin arrived separately, as did two others whose names I did not know, along with a variety of teachers that I did and did not know. Our supervisor, Mr. Patterson handed out compasses and maps to the hikers who were navigating that day, and proceeded to instruct to those who listened, the proper way to situate a map with a compass, so that the map’s compass matched the handheld one’s reading of magnetic north, and informed us that we were to be “bushwhacking” at points and that we were headed in a generally north, north-west direction. Furthermore he handed out trash bags with which we were to protect our backpacks from the inclement weather.
Half an hour later, we departed from the parking lot at the beach and began hiking uphill on a well beaten path aimed north. The air was clearer and the sound of the surf was heard between the trees. We began to grow nearer and nearer to the coast, until we came to a funnel of foliage which placed me and my close companions and associates at the head of the pack {two of which were the leading folks,} and we raced through the jungle of brush that covered our heads. I took a keen interest in the foliage, a kaleidoscope at the speed I moved at, and would have liked to slow down, but for pace of my companions, I did not stop for rose sniffing.
At the top we reached hill-dunes, with cliffs estimated at sixty feet tall, and from the tops of the mountains of sand, we could see the forests stretching out as far as the fog would allow us to see. For a while it was like this, we lingered on the tops of the dunes, waiting for the rest to catch up so that we could then race like children to the next interesting destination, giggling as we scraped sand against boot, running and sliding through fields of ivy and grass, until the wood swallowed us again.
As soon as we were in, we were out, and climbed around the largest dune, whose face I challenged on a short peak against the gradual slope. There wasn’t so much danger as excitement, as I had realized the familiarity of this experience was as I had done as a child in the conservation woods of my neighborhood, but without the adult concept of destination. Rejoining the group we saw the next checkpoint of our journey, a dome protruding from the hillside, with a lake at the bottom, as though a giant had scooped a ball from the earth, only to set it down mere yards away. We descended passing a ranger and pausing to use the restrooms at the beach below the gargantuan, now shrouded by foliage. I changed my socks in anticipation.
Bearberry Hill East Summit: 11:45 am.
At the beach, we walked out to witness the sea before our next leg of the trip. By chance, a pride of seals swam by, playing with each other. We began on a paved road that had been immersed by sand at some point, leaving the riverbed of where the cape had been divided my lifetime ago. The road circled a hill being developed with a generously sized house, and then veered to tangent beside the pond. At this point we departed to bushwhack on what appeared to be the side farthest from the hill, and in the course of our actions we, for the last time grazed the Oceanside cliffs, atop which there were two openings for investigation. Being near enough to the lead, Noah and I chose to divide the both of us to investigate routes. He discovered what resembled a beaten path, while I did not, which coincidently did not stop me from regaining the lead. Barreling though the undergrowth, I caught up to him, and we led the group across the east side of the small valley, until he, Justin and I reached the base of the hill, where we jockeyed in the semi-vertical climb. Our momentum kept us going and once we had reached the platform on its plateau where we collapsed, cheerfully breathless, which we will claim was in response to the view.
When the group had ascended, we ate our lunches as a flock of birds danced overhead, a black ballet as one fled the rest in synchronized flight from the mob. The mist descended on us, and we rushed to pack, a mere fifteen minutes after arrival, but in retrospect it was necessary, as thunder was to follow. We hiked down in the direction of the Western summit, and then branched off in the wrong direction, which took us little more than forty minutes to correct. The mass of our ragtag bunch started to take breaks more frequently and with the onset of rain, the dirt roads became more difficult to navigate. For what could have been easily two miles, we began to doubt ourselves, and took a series of misconceived turns, leading us up agonizingly difficult hills to witness the useless driveways of the forest. The ends were abrupt and often led to nowhere, or private places that would have shot first and asked questions later, which we were in no mood to analyze, and so we resumed our following of the superior dirt road.
Abandoned Radar Station: Time unknown?
A caterpillar landed on my shoulder. I didn’t feel it at that point, like I didn’t feel my backpack, like I didn’t feel my feet, like I hardly acknowledged the rain slapping my face, trying to revive my senses. Noah noticed however, and that was the last straw, after having been drenched to my boxers, and wearing small lakes in my sneakers, without a moment’s hesitation proceeded to hop about and flick the fuzzy multi-legged leaf-chewer off my shirtsleeve. Miles and I walked side by side in the memories of tire tracks. While this happened I thought back a half hour ago to when we had been on pavement waving goodbye to the happy couple who had been concerned about us taking their wedding flowers off the beach. Whatever emotion felt then was no longer present as we tromped for what seemed like hours in the impressions of car treads, with the rain continuing its barrage. Eventually we stopped at forks in the road, always taking the northern option, until the path split into two sections. We the runners had our own ideas, and the adults theirs, so while they consulted maps, we sat with our gut intuition cringing and complaining so. Fifteen minutes went by, until the supervisors had decided to agree, and while I can reflect in the comfort of my home with some amount of nostalgia, the bitterness of the situation is a vivid memory to me.
Our legs were tight and needed stretching and our compasses required watching, so I and my friends ran. The cold winds dried what they could, and we bounced from root to root, dancing feverously for tomorrow, and everything that the day would entail. Soon though, the path gave out to a submerged hardtop. Squares of pavement a hundred feet across lay wasted in the brush, and a pile of rocks sat in its center. There was another fork, from which we took a left {after I so ungraciously opted for the right} and for that I am glad {to have lost.}
High fences with triangles of steel atop the poles where barbed-wire teeth once stretched above this unraveled wire mesh fence-worm, left to guard its once-internal organs, now open to the air. Visible through the chain link were numerous white box-buildings, their paint peeled, revealing blackened wood where mold had crept into veins. The ground was barren, save for the refuse which grew in abundance; chairs, desks, and the cast iron skeleton of a gazebo, who’s black build contrasted the off white circus tent that was, according to a discovered map, where the church had once stood. To our left, the boarded up houses of the same black, white and brown, with no glass in eye-windows. They formed a key shaped avenue, reminiscent of a suburban neighborhood that could have housed the American dream. Ahead was the baseball diamond, lonesome with its uncut outfield, the pastime having died with the childhood fantasies. We were silent and giddy. We were shouting and grim. We passed a building belched from the rest, outside the flesh, with bars on its windows. It cried and cringed as we walked past, but we saw shelter, and through the rain, it was hard to tell if the sounds we heard were not our own footsteps.
Highland Light in Truro: 4:20 pm.
Through the woods, there was a castle, or what remained of one. Besieged by foes long since gone, a yawning wound revealed a gutted inside to the almost-magic rook, empty with coke cans and other signs of neglect. We cut through the woods, and felt our journey almost over. Some ran ahead, others tried to keep up, while I stayed back, having gotten caught up in the way the rain fell from the tiers of the tower. Now three groups wandered, and bushwhacking through the densest course of our long trek, I made an effort to display my agreeability to navigation. Half here in the now, half back in my childhood remembering how to duck and weave and jump through the undergrowth and over the fallen stumps, my youth guided me from our path, to stragglers from the first half of our party, and I directed them to our path the best I could. Eye popping spokes jutted from trees and sleeve-tearing thorns crisscrossed the path, meeting my elbows and forearms. Then I cleared a path for the more encumbered people, removing dead limbs, tucking limber ones from the way I wanted to make, we soon met with the end of the first group. I waited to rejoin my friends at the head, watching the tail of our collection to help when needed, somewhat worrisome; even though they were more experienced than I. to my excitement however, and to alleviate the stresses of the trip, I found a reward in a golf ball tucked into some dead leaves. We emerged on the golf course, carts zipping around the muddy field, and I broke from the pack, waving farewell to those I’d watched needlessly, or more to make me feel better.
Across the field, in less than a minute, I ascended the final hill with vigor more than I had felt the entire time we’d been on this expedition, and like a jester, I mock tackled Miles, who was more glad that I was still enthused than upset at nearly being knocked over by my exhausted antics. We made it to a car, any car, ruddy faced, complaining and having the time of our lives. Doubtless we were more appreciative of the commonplace objects we used everyday, and we roiled in the luxury of chairs and towels, anxious for our next opportunity to shower.
Permission to duplicate has been granted.
